Stories from Grand Cafe — Part 2: A Pink Palace

On the first night, the toilet exploded.

We skipped a traditional soft opening and, instead for two weeks, limited service to 40 seats per night in a restaurant that could hold 120. I wanted to get everything exactly right—probably being too precious about it. Then, on the first night, the toilet exploded.

In the middle of service, a server came back and said, The toilet’s exploding. Sure enough, water was spraying out of the wall. Marco and I dove into action—literally! We grabbed an entire bag of linens and spent 45 minutes crawling around on the bathroom floor, containing the flood. All I could think was, I don’t care if I die right now; this water cannot leak into the dining room. By some stroke of luck, no one needed the bathroom during that time.

On the third night, the hoods went out. It happened at 2:30pm, and we had to decide by 4 whether we could open at 5. The pressure was unreal. We pivoted to Plan B, filling wine buckets with bottles of champagne and turning the night into a party. Alan ran to Ace to buy Weber grills, but they only had one—the display model. He argued with the employee, insisting, I’m leaving with this grill! That night, we cooked for 40 people in the back parking lot on a display grill, and no one left disappointed.

The Dissonance

My strongest impression of Grand is the dissonance. We poured ourselves into making people happy. And we did! But it was an uphill battle. From the outside, we looked like success. Grand Cafe was in the press, packed every night, James Beard nominations. But the reality? It was so much harder than it looked.

The building, with its vintage charm, was OLD. The roof leaked, the basement flooded, and the heat barely worked in the prep kitchen. The dishwasher lived in the basement, the hoods only half-functioned, and the electrical was, well, fucked up. We were holding the place together with duct tape and sheer determination. The things we made happen in that tiny kitchen shouldn’t have been possible! But we did it anyway—making it all look easy, even when it wasn’t.

No matter how hard it was, we knew we were creating something special. We only closed on Sunday nights, and for three years, I didn’t take a single day off. Still, I just knew—this is worth it.

The Ritual of Service

Daily life was a grind but I loved it. I’d get to the restaurant around 9am and dive straight into prep. Britt St Clair, my Chef de Cuisine (and now Operations Director of PDC), would check in with the line cooks throughout the day, stepping in where needed—whipping chantilly, stuffing chickens, or the tedious task of making Pike Quenelles.

One thing I’ve always done in every kitchen is the 4pm scrub-down— floors, counters, every surface cleaned. Then we’d all sit down together, FOH and BOH, for pre-shift and family meal, usually roast chicken thighs, simple but comforting. During pre-shift, we’d go over every detail—reservations, birthdays, anniversaries. We googled every guest because knowing who you’re cooking for makes the work more meaningful. We’d revisit our ethos: kindness over niceness, the importance of eye contact, the tiny gestures that made people feel cared for. After pre-shift, FOH took coffee orders for the kitchen—a small, bonding moment that reminded us we were all in it together.

At 5pm, mise check. Britt and I tasted every sauce, checked every piece of mise en place, ensuring it met our standards. If the kitchen was calm, if everyone was standing still, we knew we were ready.

Service at Grand was intense. Everything was verbal, meaning the expos would call out tickets and the line cooks didn't look at them. Britt and I split roles—one on hot expo, calling tickets to the hot line, plating every dish and keeping the kitchen moving; the other on cold expo, calling tickets to garde manger, making sure every order went out in the way we’d want to eat it, and directing the servers where to take each plate, including table number and seat number. It required relentless focus, no bathroom breaks, no stepping away. You were in it for six straight hours.

The flow was addictive. On the best nights, it felt effortless. I’d step back and think, Wow, that was lovely. Even on the hard nights, pulling it off brought this huge sense of accomplishment. Watching the dining room glow, hearing laughter at the bar—it was everything.

After service, work didn’t end. Kitchen break down, payroll, website, the logistics of actually running a business. Most nights, I was there until 1am. And after everyone left, I'd go in the walk-in and eat bacon. It was the only thing edible that wouldn’t ruin people’s mise for the next day.

Grand Guests

Our guests are the true heroes of this story. Jason P. was a regular who’d come in, settle at the bar, and would ask us to just cook for him, sometimes suggesting caviar in every course. He was so gentle and laid-back—just there to enjoy himself, never demanding.

Julie B. was another delight. For her birthday, we cooked a six-course over-the-top dinner in The Nook of PDR. Each course went out on a silver tray, and I snuck an extra vase with flowers and candles onto every tray. It wasn’t until the fourth course that Julie noticed, and when she finally saw it, she was so delighted. By dessert, their table was completely covered in candles and flowers. That moment, that romance, wasn’t lost on her, and it made all the scheming in the kitchen so much fun.

We also really cherished solo diners. BOH, we understood them—most cooks are solo diners, after all—so we treated them like VIPs. We took the time to remind them that restaurants love them, that even if they were alone, they mattered.

Many people spent their "big" moments at Grand. Birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, buying a house, finishing chemo. Some came in after hard news, needing a little extra tenderness. Those moments reminded us it wasn’t just about food; it was about humanity.

Everyone had a “toolbox” of little things they could do to elevate a guest’s experience—adding caviar to a dish, sending out an amuse, or pouring something a little bougie. No one had to ask; we’d just feel it out and make it happen. Together it created this seamless, zhuzhed-up experience that made people feel truly special. No matter the occasion, we wanted you think, Wow, this whole restaurant is here just for me.

The moments that stuck with me most were when guests came back to the kitchen to thank us. It broke the bubble in the best way. They weren’t just having dinner—they’d had such a good time they wanted to step into our world to acknowledge the people behind it.

We ran a tight, well-executed ship because every person on staff cared deeply. There was a lot of harmony to it all—the cooks, the servers, the somm—everyone was at the top of their game. And the truth is, if you couldn’t keep up, you didn’t last long. It wasn’t just about doing a job; it was about creating something magical.

And then the pandemic happened.

Stay tuned for Stories from Grand Cafe Part 3… :)